Triumph of the Tramp: A Close Reading of Charles Chaplin’s Interpretation of Nazi Propaganda

Foreword

“Propaganda is the deliberate, systematic attempt to shape perceptions, manipulate cognitions, and direct behavior to achieve a response that furthers the desired intent of the propagandist.”
—Garth S. Jowett and Victoria O'Donnell, “Propaganda and Persuasion”


“There are more valid facts and details in works of art than there are in history books.”
—Charles Chaplin

“Propaganda is like pornography; it is profane, and offensive, and demeans us by insulting our very intelligence in its crass attempts to appeal to Man’s most basic instincts. Unlike pornography, however, propaganda is more insidious; it would be a wise man indeed who can know it when he sees it.”
—Daniel Kamakura, “Triumph of the Tramp: A Close Reading of Charles Chaplin’s Interpretation of Nazi Propaganda”

Introduction

The ultimate goal of propaganda is to make the people think as exactly as one desires them to think, regardless of whether the position you are proposing is in their best interests, or even particularly logical or truthful in the least. The processes by which propaganda—particularly cinematic propaganda—achieves this end are as old as the medium of film itself: generate meaning (“discourse”), engage the viewer in that meaning (“suture”), and direct the gaze and perspective of the viewer exactly where you want them to look (“fetishize the gaze” and make it “spectacle”), until you finally succeed in usurping their viewpoint entire life outlook. These techniques of film-as-propaganda, perfected and perfectly executed in Leni Riefenstahl’s watershed film Triumph of the Will, were ultimately so successful that they succeeded in propelling some of the most dangerous men ever born into a position of power, and given film’s popularity as recreation it seems little wonder that they would make such a powerful tool of political discourse. However, against such an onslaught—against the seemingly unstoppable force of film and propaganda to corrupt the hearts and minds of otherwise rational and humane individuals—what defense does common humanity and human decency have against such a foe?

The answer, of course, is propaganda.

But the good kind.

Triumph of the Tramp

Charlie Chaplin’s The Great Dictator is more than simply a comedic masterpiece, wrapped in biting social commentary, dipped in political satire, spritzed with self-aware humor and derision, slathered in irony, and stuffed into an easy-to-swallow Hollywood slapstick format for your convenience and viewing enjoyment. It is of course, all of these things, but it is also so much more.

It is propaganda.

In the course of this essay, we will not only be analyzing The Great Dictator for its obvious propaganda value, but also engaging in a close reading of the text in order to understand precisely how the work succeeds in producing and putting forth its own unique brand of political meaning using familiar cinematic techniques held in common with those used by some of the best propagandists of the day. In a nutshell, I will not only be arguing that The Great Dictator is a work of propaganda, but that it is, in my humble opinion, the best work of propaganda—and use every technique at my disposal to usurp your sensibilities and convince you of the same.

In the final act of The Great Dictator, the film dispenses with all formality and pretense of humor to directly treat on the central message of the film—that is to say, its central political message—in a direct parody and analogue of one of Adolf Hitler’s speeches before the Nazi Party in Riefenstahl’s Triumph of the Will. The sequence begins in clip 1 (1:52:04), in which a black-cape-clad, stony faced Herr Garbitsch (Chaplin’s parody of Joseph Goebbels, Hitler’s minister of propaganda) ascends to the address the audience.

Narratively speaking, Garbitsch (Henry Daniell) is addressing his remarks to the millions of soldiers that are implied to be standing before him, as well as the rest of the world listening in via radio. However, by focusing the camera squarely on Garbitsch (and providing the viewer with literally no other image that they might focus on), clip one instantiates the viewer with the perspective of one of the storm troopers gathered at the foot of the stage; the camera, tilted up and static after following Garbitsch to the podium, mimics the perspective of a spectator in the crowd, and displays The Great Dictator’s use of cinematic “fetishized gaze,” in which the viewers is drawn into the spectacle of the scene, sutured into the film’s cinematic action. At this juncture, the viewer is no longer an “omniscient” or detached 3rd party to the scene; we the people are now squarely set in the action, standing at attention and gazing upwards at our leaders in rapt—and perhaps, fearful—awe and wonder.

Also in this clip, we see a thinly-veiled subtext of images and actions that cue the viewer in to how they are meant to view this spectacle (a necessary feature of any self-respecting propaganda film). First, Garbitsch enters the stage from camera-right, with Chaplin and his ally Schultz (Reginald Gardiner) seated left of the middle. This Right-Left orientation reflects the political duality of the scene; Garbitsch and Herring (a parody of Herman Goeringm, played by Billy Gilbert) epitomize the extreme, right-wing political fascists, whereas Chaplin and Schultz are trapped (off-frame) in the left-wing, silent and fearful of being annihilated.

It is also important to note, that as Garbitsch speaks (1:52:14) the camera moves in closer, cueing the viewer to pay attention, as this scene is of great importance and merits close observation and notation. As he speaks, however, Garbitsch never once looks down at the crowds being gathered before him; rather he looks up and above them, portraying the Nazi leadership as haughty, out-of-touch, and maliciously arrogant and condescending.

In shot 2 (1:52:33), however, the camera cuts to Chaplin to the “left” of the middle—symbolizing the comparatively “liberal” ideas that Garbitsch has been so unabashedly denouncing. Chaplin, like the dejected “liberal” democracies that (at the time of the film’s production) were being so resoundingly and demoralizingly defeated, is looking downwards, despondent, and only looks up briefly at the mention of the Jews (1:52:37), looking up and right out of the frame. This act, of Chaplin and Schultz looking up-right and out of the frame, creates the discursive meaning of their being situated left of the middle (and left of Garbitsch and the fascists, who have taken “center stage” for the moment), and establishes them as being the minority in the group; despite their identical uniforms, these two men were picked out of the crowd, and even if the viewer knows nothing else of the film, they are at least eager to find out why.

The next cut to shot 3 (1:52:46) returns us back to a mid-close-up shot of Garbitsch, still looking up and over the audience (and the viewer), continuing his bitter tirade until cutting back again to Chaplin and Schultz in shot 4 (1:52:51), at the words “…our Great Leader” (this again cues the viewer to assume that Chaplin, due to both his strong resemblance to Hitler and his character’s resemblance to “Hynkel,” the dictator of the film, has been mistaken for the brutal despot).

This cut to Chaplin, still looking off-screen to the right, shows Chaplin looking down again, dismayed, until hearing Garbitsch being to talk Hynkel (the source of so much suffering for himself and his people) up. Each time Garbitsch glorifies and lionizes the brutal dictator, Chaplin’s character’s eyes rise, each time with a visibly growing fire of objection and indignation behind them. At Garbitsch’s final words, predicting Hynkel’s rise to be the future “Emperor of the World,” Chaplin’s eyes dart right, silently looking at Schultz for guidance. Schultz, now looking left at Chaplin (metaphorically located further left than he; a former member of the old establishment, and thus more “liberal” and by extension more able to effect real change), implores his comrade to speak (1:53:02). Chaplin then steals a glance at the camera (but in reality at “us,” the viewer), before responding that he cannot. Schultz, however, refuses to look at him (thus, refusing to acknowledge his defeatist attitude and remaining valiantly stony faced) and responds that it is their “only hope.”

At the word “Hope,” however, everything changes. (No doubt a none-too-subtle nod to the candicacy of Barack Obama, 70-something years before "Obamamentum" became en vogue).

Chaplin, now that the H-word has been verbally uttered, looks back at the camera to break the fourth wall and echoes the Captain’s sentiments, enunciating “hope” once more in a dreamy-yet-despairing whisper (signaling the viewer the word and concept’s frailty and fragility in the current circumstances). At the very same time (1:53:15), delicate strings begin to play diegetic music, as Chaplin’s eyes dart about wildly, quite literally “looking” for a source of hope, before finally locking eyes with the viewer and finding it. As Chaplin’s character rises, he looks out of the frame and away (perhaps, one could argue, “to the future”), and ascends to the podium.
As he does so, all eyes (including the viewer’s own, subverted, gaze) follow him as the camera pans right to following him to the stage. Once there (1:53:25), Chaplin’s character stands in stark contrast to Garbitsch; Chaplin, appearing short, meek and unassuming, dressed in a non-descript, olive-drab (which, in black-and-white, actually appears to be a lighter shade of gray), and Garbitsch, appearing tall, imperious, and unemotional clad in jet-black capes and closed body language.

At 1:53:45, the scene cuts to Schultz on the left (once again symbolizing the “leftist” Allies and liberals of democratic Europe), looking right to Chaplin with expectant eyes. In shot 5 (1:53:46), the camera cuts to Herring and Garbitsch on the right (representing the right-wing extremes and European fascists), looking up confused rather than expectant—a subtle hint, no doubt, that fascist dictators wouldn't recognize hope or compassion, even if they say it standing in front of them.

In shot 6 (1:53:48), the camera cuts to Chaplin in a close up, showing for the first time his character’s detailed features and age (symbolized in the white streak in his hair). At the cut, Chaplin is looking down-left, despairing, but speaks when looking at us. In contrast to Garbitsch’s speech, which was uttered over the heads gathered before him (and over us, the viewer), and which was characterized by an impetuous demeanor, minimal emotion and closed body language, Chaplin’s speech makes use of liberally body language, raising his head when speaking of lofty and altruistic images, and lowering when touching on the more sinister forces arrayed before him. Also unlike Garbitsch’s monologue, Chaplin’s speech is so direct and personal, and his gaze so immediate and individual, that it not only breaks the fourth wall, not only pulls the viewer into the story and has them hanging on his every word, it is almost disconcerting in the way the words seem directed personally at you (not the person next to you, not the person behind you, but you, and only you). In this way, the film not only cues the viewer into assigning the situation importance, but also forces the viewer to adopt a stance of defensive introspection and self-analysis—while usually frowned upon by conventional propaganda (whose maxim can be crudely simplified as “thinking audiences=audiences that might find something to disagree with you about”), this perfectly captures the propagandic message of The Great Dictator itself; namely, that you (yes, you, the viewer) can and should be introspective and self-analyzing. For, as The Great Dictator argues, it is only through introspection and analysis that one can ever hope to combat the speedy simplicity that traditional propaganda brow-beats individuals with in order to compel them to conform.
The next scene change is a dissolution to shot 7 (1:55:13), which dissolves to reveal Hannah (Paulette Goddard), Chaplin’s love interest (both on-screen, and in real life at the time), and this cut is quite intentionally synced up to Chaplin’s monologue in order to neatly represent the “millions around the world” who are suffering at the hands of brutes like the Nazis, all despite (or perhaps, because of) their innocence and inherent goodness. This cut, followed quickly by a dissolve to a distant, body-shot of Chaplin (1:55:21) serves as an emotional running-start, a “springboard,” if you will, to the sudden gear shift that follows. In this gear shift, Chaplin turns to the left and pans right, lowering his gaze to the out-of-frame, invisible soldiers, imploring them not to be drawn in by the malicious lies and callous logic of the brutes he has been denouncing. At the words “machine-men,” Chaplin again looks up at the camera, both accusatory but also reassuring the viewers that, even if they had been suckered—even if they had agreed to the goose-stepping madness that had subverted their free will and consigned them into mechanical, bovine obscurity—“you are not machines.” You, the viewer, therefore, are absolved of your sins (if you had any), so long as you now see the error of your ways and agree to the new status quo being presented by the film.

Gradually, the camera begins to move in (1:56:16), and as Chaplin quotes Luke:17, the close-up cuts out the microphones in the frame (the only “machines” present in the shot), as Chaplin once again oscillates between looking down at the invisible soldiers, and up at the camera and viewers. This technique is repeated again, and each time that Chaplin looks down at the invisible soldiers and back up at the camera (and us), he occasionally directs comments such as “unloved and unnatural” upwards at the viewer. While ostensibly alienating and condemnatory, this is not necessarily meant as a personal attack against the viewer (unless they don’t agree, and are thus “against” goodness, and by extension, unnatural). Rather, it is a subtle jab at the viewer, pointing out the fact that, as an observing, omniscient 3rd party, only they (the viewer) are capable of effecting change and sparing the lives of the invisible, innumerable soldiers who would otherwise be sacrificed. Thus, the reference is in fact a call-to-arms and a plea for action, rather than a bitter denunciation or vituperation.
After a brief cut (1:57:26) to a Nazi propaganda-crowd—ironically subverting the “Nazi Propaganda Gaze” to use against its own original purpose)—the scene dissolves to Hannah once more (shot 11, 1:57:32). In this shot, Hannah begins to look up as Chaplin addresses her directly, ostensibly looking up towards Heaven (the “Kingdom of Heaven,” mentioned previously in Chaplin’s speech), and as the camera dissolves back to Chaplin in shot 12, Chaplin too is looking up along with Hannah, uniting the two (and, by extension, uniting all people who metaphorically “look up” to see the same sky and hold the same dreams of hope and liberty and humanity).

Like any great propaganda film, The Great Dictator begins and ends with a definitive political, social, economic or ethical position it wishes to espouse, and goes to great lengths to inspire—or coerce—its viewers in order to share that position, ostensibly for the betterment of all mankind. While the precise tone and exact message of each propaganda film may differ (and, in the case of The Great Dictator as opposed to Triumph of the Will, they may differ quite a bit), the various techniques and processes of creating a compelling cinematic argument are the same as those used in standard Hollywood cinematic discourse in order to create narrative sense and a story’s plot. Through the use of intimate close-ups and fourth-wall-breaking gazes, through the controlled use of perspective and fetishized spectacle, The Great Dictator acts as an ironic, comedic (but still no less valid and identifiable) example of propaganda. It is the anti-propaganda, to be sure—propaganda used to debunk the most dangerous and malicious forms of coercive, "persuasive" media—and is Chaplin’s sincere and earnest attempt to use the self-same tactics of Triumph of the Will for definitively altruistic and diametrically-opposed ends.

But then again, every propagandist believes they are doing the right thing; the curse of convincing others, is at times being convinced by yourself.

"Show and Tell": The Difference Between Discourse and Story, and the "Hero" Who Does It All...

Everyone has a story to tell. Once, when I was 7, I nearly razed my quiet suburban home to the ground in a glorious yet ultimately unsuccessful attempt to prepare myself a bowl of cereal.

That, my friends, is my story (there are others, but due to privacy issues and statutes of limitation, this is the one I feel most comfortable posting on the internet).

The discourse of my story, however, is something entirely different.

According to Christian Metz, the "histoire" of a text is distinct from its discourse. The histoire, or story, is the actual narrative tale being spunk recounted by an "all-knowing, unseen intelligence" which relates the tale to the reader/viewer/consumer, so that they may understand the meaning being conveyed.

I was seven. There was a fire. I was trying to make cereal. I am sorry.

That is the meaning, the "story" being conveyed, and I'm sticking to it.

The discourse however, is the act of telling, the means by which a story's narrative sense is being conveyed. It is, as Metz's article points out, "the material practice of making meaning."

"When I was seven, I was trying to make myself a bowl of cereal. In truth, however, what I wanted was a bowl of oatmeal, which I thought was simply cereal that one placed in the microwave to warm up. It was a reasonable assumption, given that A) I had never made oatmeal before, and B) I was seven. Unfortunately, prior to my atdtempt at culinary mastery and nutritional self-reliance, no one had informed me of the exact mechanism by which a microwave oven operated; the reason for this being, I WAS SEVEN! Thus, there was no reason for me to think that my actions were in any way imprudent, and since the process of making oatmeal was, for all intents and purposes, a routine and automatic one, there was no reason why I should have to monitor the progress of my oatmeal-in-the-making. Had I known, however, that oatmeal was not, in fact, simply cereal one placed in the microwave, and I had I also known the exact process by which one correctly made oatmeal, I would never have left my cereal/oatmeal unattended for as long as I did.

And if I had known the proper mechanism by which a microwave oven operated, I would never have left the metal spoon in the bowl while I did so...

So you see, officer, there's a perfectly logical reason why the Fire Marshal in Wexford, Pennsylvania would have my name in his records, and this whole mix-up about 'outstanding warrants' and 'domestic terrorism' is all just a really big misunderstanding..."

Thus the "story" above (that I made cereal, and a fire ensued), is conveyed in a meaningful, entertaining way by means of an untrue police affidavit--or rather, an affidavit whose truthfulness I can neither confirm nor deny, on the advice of my attorney.

In the context of the Chinese film Hero, starring Jet Li, the dichotomy of "story" and "discourse" is even further examined, and analyzed to such an extent that the lines distinguishing between the two are blurred almost beyond recognition.

In Hero, the Nameless Hero (Jet Li) recounts to the King of Qin (Chen Daoming) how he brought about the downfall of the three assassins who posed the greatest threat to the King.

In the course of three tellings however, this single tale (this "story," if you will) undergoes multiple tellings (or "discourses..." I think you get where I'm going with this) in which each time the story is retold, a closer approximation of the truth is revealed, and the accounts which are given are described in different ways.

To begin with, Nameless' story about how he defeated Long Sky (Donnie Yen) and tricked the lovers Broken Sword (Tony Leung) and Flying Snow (Maggie Cheung) are illustrated by scenes dominated by red and yellow costuming and scenery (the "hot" colors reflecting the intensely emotional, ardently passionate themes of love and betrayal), and featuring liberal use of action and Chinese wire techniques allowing fantastic leaps and impossible feats of combat through the air (reflecting the ultimately whimsical, impossibly surreal nature of the story, which is proven to be a complete fabrication).

In the second "discourse" of the story, the King realizes the falsehood of Nameless' story, and exposes them in his own retelling of what truly happened, generating a wholly different form of discourse in the film, despite the ostensibly similar "story" of how Nameless arrived at the King's palace (which, in reality, is the "story" of the film itself). These new suppositions are instead illustrated by predominately blue and green colours (representing the "cooler" spectrum of reality, which the King of Qin embodies, with his cold logic and unaffected realization that he will most likely not survive his encounter with Nameless). This rendition, like Nameless' tale, again features extensive use of wire action, illustrating the King's incredulity at Nameless' ability and his impression at the intricacy of the plot against him.

In the third and final discourse, however, Nameless finally arrives at what the viewer assumes to be the "ultimate truth" of the story; that is to say, how Nameless truly came to be seated the requisite ten paces away from the King's throne he needed in order to kill him. In this telling, the discourse adopts white costuming costuming and imagery - lapsing into green for Sword's "cooler" recollections - and make minimal use of sensationalist wire techniques. These white images indicate the "pure" story is being conveyed, and cue the reader/viewer that what they are witnessing encompasses the entire truth (much like how a white light encompasses the entire spectrum of visible electromagnetic radiation), and the realistic (comprably, anyways) depiction of the action cues the reader to interpret them as being closer to the truth and within the realm of possibility; the fact that some wire techniques make it into the recollections is a symptom of the King's (and our own) impression of the sheer skill and power of the warriors being described, and the fact that the special effects team probably had to justify their budget to the producers...

(Hey, it's an action film with discursive, philosophical and film theoretical elements, but its an action film nonetheless. Like how The Matrix can technically be read as an allegory of Christian mythology, but is what it is at the end of the day: a bad-ass-kicking, kung-fu-ck-you-in-the-SFX-guru's dream. Analyze that if you dare!)

Old and Gray: How Film Noir Comes "Out of the Past."

(In case there was ever any doubt, I did indeed try to pack as many puns, cliches, double-meanings, metaphors and symbolism into the title of this post as was humanly possible, and I am proud to say that I have succeeded. If there are any suggests for further shameless literary plugs or double entendre, I would love to hear them.)

"There is a difference between writing literary fiction, and writing genre fiction," said my English 63 professor, on the first day. It was one of my most highly anticipated classes; that rare celestial event where academia and actual student interest mingle and merge so that neither quite eclipsed the other, but rather coexisted in a happy, twilight amalgam of learning for enjoyment's sake or enjoyment for learning's. It is the academic equivalent of the moon and sun being clearly visible at the same time in the sky, shining brilliantly down upon the Earth with uncommon vibrancy and luminescence; it happens, every so often, but so rarely that ancient cultures arranged their calendars so that the next occurrence would synonymous with the End of Days...

As an aspiring science fiction writer, I didn't mind that my chose field was not included in the course syllabus; writing was writing was writing, I told myself. So what if the class didn't focus on my chosen specialty, which tended to have swaggering suits of robotic armor and voracious, brain-eating alien worms than Freudian cigar-symbolism and allegorical allusions to emasculative complexes of overly-observant male infants. Both were legitimate forms of self-expression, and if (as Freudians and Lacanites insisted) most of my ideas were really reactive manifestations of my prepubescent sexual insecurities, post-pubescent psychosexual inadequacies and repressed erotic desires for my parents, pets, siblings, spouses, selves and the occasional inanimate object...then really, anything was possible.

So, the dedicated genre-fictionist that I was, I paid rapt attention.

"There is a difference between writing literary fiction, and writing genre fiction," said my English 63 professor. "In genre fiction, the writer has the luxury of relying on previously held conceptions and generally accepted conventions of the form, held by the reader and established by antecedants and predecessors who either had the luxury of absolute, revolutionary creativity and insight, or the benefit of transcendant writing ability and nigh-preternatural imagination and vision. In genre fiction, the writer need not waste valuable time establishing such rules or conventions, instead relying on the previously-held familiarity of the reader to such rules or conventions to generate connection and narrative understanding of the issues being addressed. In genre fiction, therefore, the reader comes to the piece with a large part of the story about to be consumed already formed and internalized, and the genre writer need only draw this part out and pretty it up in some new and relatively creative way."

"In true fiction, however, such conventions are by definition absent. The writer must start essentially tabula rasa, and create such conventions and stylistic instruments from scratch. In short, with literary fiction, the writer actually has to have talent."

The sound you are now hearing, is the sound of the sun colliding with the moon and swallowing it whole. [Note: "sun"=academia, "moon"=all of my hopes and dreams as a writer].

This was not, of course, what my professor actually said; rather, this is what Daniel the Aspiring Sci-Fi Writer heard. More than likely, her words were decidedly more diplomatic and down-to-earth. More than likely what she really said was:

"Genre fiction has its place, but what we're going to be focusing on is literary fiction, which has a different set of constraints and expectations associated with it."

Still, the idea that genre fiction was somehow "preconceived" and "conventional" was decidedly injurious to the pride of a young genre-fictionist, who had always assumed that he (like every other artist in human history), was wholly-and-completely-and-indubitably-original-and-anyone-who-disagreed-was-either-wrong-or-a-fool-or-both-so-there! But, once cooler heads prevailed, and wounded pride gave way to tacit (but seethingly indignant and brooding) acceptance, I came to the startling, and somewhat rationalizing, realization that this was not only true for genre fiction and film, but also its greatest asset.

With any piece of literature or film, audience participation is in many ways the most important, and ultimately the most unpredicatble and uncontrollable, variable in determining a given work's success or failure. The most important of these, of particular saliency for film and cinema, is the concept of "suspension of disbelief."

"Suspension of disbelief" refers to an audience's willingness to (quite literally) "suspend" their passing judgment on a film's realism or verisimilitude in exchange for something that the film offers: sensory stimulation, emotional evocation, intellectual thought provation, or just simple personal entertainment.

Every film, by very nature, is somehow unrealistic, fantastic, or impossible; if they were anything else, they wouldn't be "films." Even relatively mundane or "practical" works of cinema like Out of the Past have, when logically analyzed, fantastic or impractical events and devices within them that render it wholly impossible and logically unsustainable. How, for example, did Jeff Markham manage to be involved (either directly or indirectly) with so many murders and betrayals, uncover so many plots and schemes and attempts on his life without incurring the suspicion of the authorities sooner of coming to any kind of physical harm until literally the penultimate scene of the film. Moreover, how was Kathie able to manipulate so many men to do her bidding so easily, in such an apparently short time, without being discovered or suffering the consequences for so long? For that matter, what are the odds that Fischer would be in San Francisco gambling at precisely the same crowded track as Jeff and Kathie, at precisely the same time, and just "happen" to see Markam in the throngs of thousands? And let's not even get into the odds that Stephanos might've randomly travelled through the podunk town that Jeff was hiding in, and happened to see him pumping gas without Jeff's knowledge (given Jeff's preternatural ability to sense danger and avoid it so far).

There are, of course, attempts to explain this available in the context of the film (Markham is a detective of preternatural ability, Kathie is uncommonly beautiful and sociopathically charming, etc.), however even these "explanations" are so far-out and beyond the realm of probability that they should scarely be convincing to anyone of reasonable mental faculty or acumen. As I have stated previous in relation to film, we know consciously (or at least, we should know) that the events portrayed are so impossible, so outlandish and so beyond anything remotely possible in common experience or everyday life that we should find them laughably absurd and ridiculous.

But we don't. And I, for one, certainly wasn't laughing.

The reason for this, put simply, is that as an audience familiar with the genre of film noir and mystery, we understand the impracticality implicit in the film as part of the "film noir ethos," and accept its impracticality as easily as we ignore it in favor of our continued enjoyment and understanding of the film and it's narrative. As Neale states in his article,

"[Genre films] do not consist only of films; they consist also, and equally, of specific systems of expectation and hypothesis which spectators bring with them to the cinema, and which interact with films themselves during the course of the viewing process."

Thus, these "logical breaks" are unique in that, while they may differ drastically from the reality which we normally inhabit, they are not glaringly obvious or jarring when presented in film, by virtue of the fact that they are in keeping with the viewer's expectation of what film noir "accepts as true." Kathie is successfully manipulative because she's beautiful. Jeff is successful in avoiding danger because he is clever. Fischer finds them because Jeff and Kathie get careless, and Stephanos finds Markham becase, well, these things happen.

We simply accept the logical fallacies of film noir as just "the way things work" in the universe of the cinematic style, and award the film verisimilitude and credibility, because it is "the way things work;" at least, in the realm of film noir convention. Detectives, in film noir, are by definition heroic (or anti-heroic), clever, and somehow "a cut above the rest" in terms of their cunning, moral fiber, and ability to discern the truth from lies and fact from fiction. Police, by film noir convention, are inherently and by very nature corrupt or incompetent, or (more than likely) some grand combination of both. And women, by their very nature, are beautiful and charming and cunning and manipulative, and routinely make fools of men, because they are women and that's what they do best.

[Note that the attitudes or opinions expressed within this blog are not necessarily those of this post's author. Well, maybe they are, but they are not in anyway intended to be offensive the feminist movement or insensitive to the status of women...look, just please don't hurt me.]

Because we are familiar with these "workings" and tropes as part of the narrative devices and familiar thematic traits particular to the genre, we can overlook their lack of reality or relation to true experience, and ascribe the film a level of verisimilitude that may or may not be warranted by realism alone. As Neale points out, audiences taking in a film with a tenuous relationship to reality does not expect it to compare to the normal laws of plausibility necessary for understanding or acceptance. No one watching Fiddler on the Roof seriously contemplates the practicality of Jewish peasants choreographically singing and dancing as they go about their daily routines in Imperial Russia (although I will admit wondering why the Fiddler is on the Roof to begin with, but we'll continue the suspension of disbelief and pretend that actually makes sense).

To put it simply, genre films make use of commonly held expectations and identifiable tropes and schema to advance its narrative story without having to ponderously explain otherwise impractical or inexplicable events that might impede an audience's acceptance or enjoyment of a film.

Put even more simply, we accept the unacceptable because we expect what we are expected to, so if you don't mind, shut up and let me enjoy the movie!

Thank you!

That Movie Magic

"How did he DO that!" gasped a four-year-old Japanese boy, as a he gazes, up wide-eyed and slack-jawed, at a stage in Operyland, Tennesee (Nashville's answer to Disney World, and sort of a spiritual predecessor to Dollywood).

The object of this boy's fascination was a stage magician, famous in Opryland and nowhere else, whose name not even he remembers anymore. The trick in question was no big feat; it was no Copperfieldian de-materialization of the Statue of Liberty, no Houdinite stunt of death-defiance, no David Blaneist act of self-mutilation involving a razor blade, car battery, and apparent blunt force trauma to the head. It was a simple trick, by modern standards: an avian "evaporation," by which lively and particularly spirited canary was made to vanish as if it were never there.

I knew, of course, how he had done it.

Vaguely.

Some unseen hand, no doubt belonging to a beautiful, busty, Bunny-like assistant (or burly Bulgarian stage hand), would somehow remove the bird from the cage as the magician laid the supposedly "mysical" cloth upon it, leaving the cage empty and the crowd amazed whence the cloth was removed. I knew all of this, of course; I had seen it a million times, and by age four I was already something of a magician myself (I could make my mother's quarters disappear faster than she could pretend to humor me). Even so, when the man in an outrageous top hat and shimmering black cloak asked for a "volunteer" from the audience and selected my mother, my death grip upon her arm could only be released by his choice of a different victim to vanish.

I knew, it wasn't real, of course. I knew it for a fact. But the art of a true magician, however, is the one which can make his audience forget what they know.

This is the allure of the film.

There is no act, no single illusion of smoke and mirrors or sleight of hand that can compare to the magic and mysticism of the movie. It draws in and fools even the greatest human minds, it tricks and bamboozles the most cunning and conniving members of the supposedly "advanced" human race. The movie makes fools of us all, but like any good magic trick, we thirst for it all the same.

Pascal Bonitzer's piece "Off-Screen Space" touches on the concept of film as a willing fiction on the part of the film, accepted on the part of the viewer as truth, but with the implicit understanding on the part of all parties that the viewer "doesn't really think" that the flashes of light on the screen are real. As Bonitzer says, we "question the 'authenticity' of a costume, criticize the actor 'behind' the character, wonder whether a background is or is not a back-projection," rationalizing logically about the inherent and glaringly obvious fictive aspects of a film's experience.

We know that Natalie Portman is not in fact an epileptic girl in Garden State. We know that real life doesn't cut-on-action or shot-reverse-shot during dialogue (at least, not without the use of some seriously heavy, industrial-grade hallucinagens). We know that men, no matter how "super" cannot fly. To think otherwise would be spectacular self-delusion and detachment from reality. And yet, every day, millions of four-year-old boys across the nation and around the world will galavant around their homes bearing undergarments on top of their trousers, and bathroom towels around their necks, ever watchful of green glimmers of Kryptonite.

Even though we know that it is just red dye and a pressurised hose, we gasp asMajid commits suicide right before our very eyes in Cache. Even though we know that is just an artfully made latex mask, we shriek in terror at the approach of Freddie Kreuger in Nightmare on Elm Street. And even though we know that Hugh Grant is not (unfortunately) the Prime Minister of England, we still cry at the end of Love, Actually...

...some of us. Not me of course. That would be...stupid...

But Bonnitzer raises and excellent point, albeit just in passing; as an audience we do criticize films that are somehow "unbelievable" or ruin the suspension of disbelief that makes truly artful films such an exquisite experience to behold. We laugh at horror movies that are "so fake," and mock kung fu and Western films that ruin an otherwise compelling and moving tale with over-wrought mannerisms and poor-quality acting. It is, as Bonnitzer says, a "critical 'pulling back,'" and "very much a defense against the impression of reality'" that the films attempt to generate; we resent these films with their half-assed acting and hackney'd plots, their low-budget production and no-budget effects. They are pale imitations of the truth, unbelievable and unfaithful facsimiles of reality and plain and outright lies. As rational, logical, non-delusional individuals, we are put off by their indignity and intolerable attempt at perfidity. But not because they tried to trick us, but because they did a piss-poor job of doing so.

We are inexplicably critical and picky of the lies we enjoy having spun to us.

Because of this, we also criticize films as if the things they show us are very real (or, if not quite real, then real enough that they deserve to be treated judged as such). Who among us hasn't thought to themselves, "My God...Anakin is such a whiney little douche," while watching Star Wars III: Revenge of the Sith. Who hasn't secretly found themselves rooting for the "challenger" in Rocky, despite knowing logically that a) he has no chance, and b) he isn't real! We know what we know, and we can't help but know it. But, god dammit,

"GET UP, ROCKY! GET UP!"

Paradiso, the Beginning and the End

"To all things comes and end...and to all things comes a beginning."

--Prologue, Heroes of Might and Magic IV

Cinema Paradiso is an interesting example of my favorite stylistic technique and literary form: the in media res.

In media res literally means "in the middle of the story," and is the artistic form in which a narrative story or literary work pick up from the very middle or even the very end of a complete narrative arc. Examples include Homer's Illiad and Odessey, which start their tales in the middle of the story and must refer back to points in the narrative's past in order to provide background for the events currently transpiring. Cinema Paradiso, without giving away too many spoilers, starts its tale where most pieces end; the death of a paternal role model, and the late-adulthood of its central protagonist. But, in order for the audience to make sense of the matter at hand, the story must go back to the narrative beginning.

It's a refreshing change of pace of the "stereotype" format of traditional film and narratives; instead of beginning, exposition, rising action, climax, falling action and end, works that are in media res turn the "story arc" progression on it's head. Instead, works in the in media res vein have the benefit of immediately investing the reader in the story by skipping all of the boring (but, narratively essential) exposition and build-up right to the point of interest and tension. Instead, the audience starts at the meat of the story: the climax or rising action, perhaps, or even the falling action just after the point of conflict and greatest tension. It's an effective strategy that can liven up and move along a story that might otherwise feel dead or plodding. Stories that follow traditional story arcs must either maintain a constant sensation of tension or awe (as do adrenaline-soaked action films like Wanted or Lethal Weapon), or have such a compelling story and such interesting characters that the reader/viewer cannot help wanting to see the story come to its completion (like Star Wars)

Even if one could consistently create constant tension or characters and plot that continue to involved one's audience, these may all count for very little if the audience in question doesn't see it. Think of a recommended a book that came with the qualifyer "Great book, but skip to the [insert arbitrary point in the story]; that's when the thing really picks up!" The same is true for films and movies and TV series alike; no matter how good the story might be, it's no good unless people are actually willing to sit through all the "other stuff" in order to get to it. You can try to cut down or skim through the "other stuff," but in any story there is always going to be "fluff" that, while it may not be "sexy" or particularly interesting, is utterly essential to understanding the action that's going on. We may be particularly in the entire history of the collective Star Wars galaxy (although I am ^^;), however we need at least some indication of what has happened in order to understand why Princess Leia is running from an Imperial Star Destroyer, and why it's so important that the droids escape whilest everyone else onboard is getting slaughtered.

But where George Lucas resorted to a receding prologue to set his stage and inform his audience about the goings-on of a galaxy far, far away, artistically he might as well have done without. We don't have to know why Leia's diplomatic transport is coming underfire to know that something important is going on, and it would probably be interesting to see what. I call it the "Ooh! Space explosions! Ooh! Giant space ships! Ooh! Dancing lights!" Phenomenon. Likewise, in Cinema Paradiso, we don't need to know what's going on in order to catch that something important just happened, and it might be interesting to see what it all means. We don't have to know who Alfredo is (nor even Toto, the central character) to know that someone is dead, and that he will be sorely missed. And right away, the audience wants to know: who? how? why? And to that end, the tale of Cinema Paradiso takes off.

Human beings want to know. That's our nature; it's why our ancestors first stood up and thought, "Huh. You know, this 'fire' thing is pretty neat. I wonder what else we can use this for...?" Because of this, we as humans are infuriated by stories that start somewhere other than the beginning, even if we otherwise might not care about the story itself. Very few Americans, I think, would care to watch a nostalgic period piece about the decline of the Italian film industry. Maybe a few would be receptive to a bildungsroman about an Italian boy growing up in a podunk villa, but anything more than lukewarm interest is a stretch at best. Regardless of one's interest in Italian cinematography or cultural history, however, everyone in the audience who begins a screening of Cinema Paradiso is thinking one thing:

"Who the heck is Alfredo? Isn't that a kind of pasta?"

In order to find out, we watch the film. And what a film indeed!

Fight Club, Film, and How They Affect the Rest of the World

They say that a picture is worth a thousand words, and in my opinion, truer words were never spoken.

With the right image, presented the right way, and in the right context, you can change a person's entire experience of perception. The right image can change minds. The right image can shake worlds, and in the hands of a skilled image-handler, nations and entire continents can be brought to the truth.

Or, the truth can be squashed. Or repressed. Or stripped of all its essence, twisted and mangled beyond all recognition and used to specatular, terrifying ends.

With the right image, presented in the worst ways and for the worst intentions, you can change a person's entire perception of what is right and just. The right image can change people. It can ruin lives. And in the wrong hands, the right image can bring nations and entire continents to the brink of war and destruction.

Films, therefore, like Fight Club and Amelie are a thousand times more powerful. If a picture is worth a thousand words, a film is worth a thousand words per second. That's what films are, really; nothing more than a series of pictures and images. They're just photons dancing on a screen, spinning and flashing, brilliantly luminous before our very eyes. They may even be beautiful, or hideous, and may be accompanied by sonorous melodies or cacophonies of noise and auditory violence. Pleasurable or unpleasant, in reality we know that they don't matter. They can't help us, or hurt us.

They're not real after all.

Logically, we know all this; we know that they're just pictures. They are imprints, really; shallow duplications of something recorded far, far away in some time past. They're not real; and even if the events they portray are "real" or did "happen," by virtue of being recorded, we at least have the safety and security of knowing that it happened in the past. As beautiful or realistic as they are, films are just echoes of the past at best; mass-produced memories and hollow recollections vainly trying to pretend they're still real.

But whatever we think we know, images are powerful. Images can change the world. They can even change the very fabric of reality, or at the very least our perception of it.

Film is probably the most spiritually touching experience mankind has ever developed. More than any other media, films captivate us and immerse us in a way that defies rational thought. You can't deny that Tyler Durden exists, or that Amelie is really turning into a puddle of water before your very eyes. By definition then, that makes them real; for who though we might not
like to admit it, nobody sees something and immediately assumes "This must be a hallucination."

(It's no accident, by the way, that both Fight Club's audience and its protagonist are surprised to learn that the object of their fixation is just a figment of the protagonist's imagination. Duped by the hallucination of an imaginary character? Oh, the shame of it all...)

"Suspension of disbelief," is never an issue with movies; at least, not to all but the most tragically instantiated and boorishly unimaginative. But even then, when people call out in things like "That couldn't happen!" or "That is so fake!" in the middle of a movie, they are not doubting the reality or probability of what they see; they're resentful at the inconsistency of what they see with reality. In fact, by complaining about a movie's reality or believability they are in fact testifying to and supporting it; after all, the movie never said it was real, and so ascribing its images degrees of validity is to admit that there is something about it that begs to be looked at as somehow existing to begin with.

(Regardless, people who talk loudly in movies need to be escorted out of the theater. And then shot in a dark alley...)

To me, films provide a window into the realm of possibility; or more to the point, an emergency exit out of the realm of reality.

People really mean it when they start talking about "movie magic." They are magical, and even better is the fact that they make that magic real. Through the lens of a camera, a cameraman sees the world as it is in that instant, and captures it in that instant. But, through the reflection of that instant through the lens of a projector, the film shows the viewer how the world was, and by extension, what the world could be again (or in the case of speculative fiction, could be some day). Moreover, films also provide a contrasting agent against which present reality can be examined. In seeing what "was" in a film, the viewer is seeing an alternate reality different from their own, and so doing, is able to look "back inside" to their reality having gained the perspective of another (the proverbial "through a glass, darkly" scenario). The importance of this can not be overstated, because as Cartesian philosophers enjoy pointing out, opportunities to reliably examine reality or entertain changes to it are exceedingly rare from within, if they happen at all. And on the rare chance that reality is changed in some meaningful way, even rarer is the soul who is able to examine it or analyze it in time, instead of simply reacting to those changes as they happen.

Thus, films allow us to see what we would not otherwise see, and show of things that we would not otherwise have paid attention to. They remind us of what has happened before, give us hope or caution us as to what lies ahead, show us how to see the here-and-now reliably and, most importantly, give us the power and the will to change all of the above (albeit for better or worse).

"In Hollywood, anything is possible."

Truer words were never spoken.

Breaking the First Two Rules of Fight Club

The First Rule of Fight Club is: "You do not talk about Fight Club."

The First Rule of Movie Blog Writing is: "Quote catch-phrases and witty one-liners ad naseum to prove that you're 'hip' enough to be tuned into pop culture references (and, implicitly, to exclude those cultural Philistines not sufficiently 'in the know' to be part of your selective, movie-going clique.)"

Personally, I'd rather be in Fight Club.

Unlike blog writing, Fight Club's rules are simple, explicit, and not without consequences for their infractions. But at it's core, "rules" are what this movie is about; a comparative study of the absurdist constructs and constraints of "civilized" society, thrown up against the harsher (but more simplistic and ostensibly altruistic) constructs and philosophy of a rejectionist counter-culture movement. It's the classic tale of teenage rebellion against "the Man" and rebels-without-a-cause, with the minor twist of supplanting angsty yuppie teens with neurotic 30-somethings.

You put down "Fight Club," I raise you a "Warped Tour mosh pit."

This is not to say that I reject the movie's message; far from it, it's an entirely valid and ultimately crucial comparison for any modern American to make. Tyler Durden, the movie's central antagonist/antihero figure, offers his followers everything that their "normal" lives cannot: a return to simplicity in a world gone mad with complexity and complications. As Durden (Brad Pitt) puts it, the world has become "civilized" and commercialized to the point of maddening absurdity. Civilized people, no longer concerned with survival and subsistence, have instead begun filling their time with frivolous pursuits, satiating their primal desires (food, fighting and...well, you get the idea) with hollow, commercialized substitutes. Consumerism, in the views of of Durden, has replaced community, and instead of getting what is necessary (which society has already provided in excessive abundance), Man has instead obsessed himself with obtaining precisely what is unnecessary. Quoth Durden: "Why do you or I know what a duvet is? I mean, how is that necessary to our survival in the hunter-gatherer sense of the word?"

Even more absurd, and perhaps more sinister in hindsight, is society's suppression of basic human instincts and behaviors that are not "conducive" to the maintenance of social order. Violence, the most obvious example of "destructive behaviors," is actively suppressed in civilization for inherently obvious reasons; by definition, a "civilized" society is one in which the inhabitants do not have to fight to survive, literally and metaphorically. Indeed, those that choose to fight anyways are regarded with suspicion, fear, and above all confusion; and usually, these popular sentiments are (justifiably) manifested in the form of institutionalization, imprisonment, or similar removal of these "violent individuals" from civilized society. Indeed, the only "acceptable" place of violence in civilized society is as a response to violence from another (legal forms of self-defense and "justifiable homicide"), "controlled" violence in approved, controllable environments (pugilism and "contact sports") or ostensibly "productive" violent meted out against socially-acceptable targets (criminal elements, social undesireables, or enemies in times of war).

In the world of Fight Club, however, the perception of violence (and later, just about everything else that is "socially accepted") is turned on its head. Instead of fighting out of necessity or when "socially appropriate," members of Fight Club fight expressly because it is unnecessary or socially inappropriate. Or, sometimes, just because. The goal, therefore, is not "victory" or profit, onr even entertainment, as we might understand it; indeed, on several occasions Fight Club members fight specifically to lose and be beaten upon (sometimes, in the absence of an actual opponent).

The absurdity of it from a social and intellectual point of view is painfully obvious (no pun intended). No society (or "tribe" in the hunter-gatherer sense of the word) can survive for long on such a tenuous and belligerent central dogma. At its very base, "Durdenism" as I like to call it, is an inherently flawed philosophy, doomed to failure and self-destruction. But, at least on some level, self-destruction is its entire point.

In a perverse way, having his life destroyed by Durden is what allows Fight Club's anonymous protagonist (Edward Norton) to finally come to terms with society and his place in it. (Yes, the protagonist is in fact anonymous. Don't believe me? Try to remember him using his real name, or anyone using his real name. Still don't believe me? Check the credits. Or better yet, read the book.). The fact that the narrator was a white-collar corporate Lemming is no accident. From a social point of view, the narrator has everything that a civilized society can and does provide, and fits perfectly into the archetype of what all "civil" individuals should strive to achieve: a stable and safe living environment (well, in theory at least), a steady job, and enough income to support himself and even indulge a few consumerist pasttimes. The very icon of domestic security, the narrator has everything he could want and need...and that is precisely the problem.

Pause now, for an adolescent interlude.

For most teens in America, the above situation is eerily analogous. Speaking from personal experience (and bear in mind, mine are by no means representative of the whole; and Thank God for it), most teens living in middle-class Suburbia find themselves in an altogether "pleasant" environment, all things considered. Leave It To Beaver parodies notwithstanding, most teens in America have no dearth of food (in fact, quite the opposite), no lack of sanitation or hygiene (unless by choice), and relatively safe and secure living arrangements (i.e. in the "hunter-gatherer" sense of safety and security). However, young people have no shortage of problems, and while they are all serious and deserve to be treated as such, the fact remains that young people in America have it pretty good, all things considered.

To put it bluntly, there is a reason why my song "99 Problems (But Predation Ain't One)" will never reach the Top 100 charts, not the least of which is my mediocre-at-best musical talents. (Although, if any agents or record labels are reading this, I'm still open to offers).

If we as a society have everything we need (and many of the things we think we want) why then, are escapist tendencies and behaviors so prevalent even today? Drug use, alcohol consumption, promiscuity, all of these are signs of a society that, on at least some level, is failing to provide its members something that they desperately need and crave. To be sure, our problems are nowhere near as severe as they could be, and to Society's credit they are no longer as endemic as in say, the 60s and 70s, when the Unholy Trinity above were at their highest peaks.

But just as insidious are the relatively new phenomena that continue to baffle the experts, boggle the mind, and defy all rational and logical explanations. Drug use and alcoholism may have steadily declined since their hedonistic heyday, but may have been replaced with newer more complicated phenomena like "video game addiction" and eating disorders, which now seem to be targetting an entirely new and previously untapped group of "at risk" youth. Likewise, "cutting," a relatively new take on an old idea, has completely changed the definition and understanding of pathological self-mutilation (now defined as "self-harm" for the more squeamish), and come complete with new "subcategories" that make the term truly comprehensive. These include, among others, "dermatillomania" (compulsive skin picking), "trichotillomania" (compulsive hair pulling), and "wound interferance" (compulsively irritating or preventing an existing injury from healing properly). The list goes on, and at the risk of sounding glib, the possible permutations are limited only by one's imagination, and to a lesser extent, the laws of physics.

These and other phenomenon have have forced their way into the collective consciousness and invaded environments hitherto considered "safe" and "healthy." They target a demographic group that not only has access to the best living conditions and care available, but also (ostensibly) has the means by which to obtain whatever minutiae they may still lack. Even more worrisome is the fact that efforts to change this have met with mixed succeses, and may end up causing more harm than good; "Vitamin R" (Ritalin) and its progeny now hold a dubious place of honor in popular culture, roughly akin to that of Valium popularized by "anxious" adults of the 60s and 70s.

Now, returning to our regularly scheduled program: Fight Club, and its unique take on self-destruction.

In the philosophy of Tyler Durden, self-destruction is not a worrisome trait, and indeed may be a necessary one for true spiritual and social "salvation." Durden (later revealed to be the protagonist's own "liberated" alter ego), almost seems to enjoy the sensation of pain, and liberally shares that "gift" with others (ostensibly free of sado-masochistic pleasure) in order to "awaken" them to his philosophy of enlightenment. In addition to the pain inflicted in the many fights between himself and the other members of Fight Club, Durden chemically burns the hands of the protagonist (another technique frequently used by "cutters" and self-harmers), spouting spiritual and philosophical rhetoric eerily reminiscent of Shaivitic sects (worshippers of Shiva, the Hindu god of Destruction) in India and East Asia. He describes the act as "something beautiful," and endorses spectacular acts of vandalism and destruction not merely as belligerent actions against the artifices of a corrupt system (as one might expect of a terrorist or other social revolutionary), but as genuinely creative and even constructive acts that serve to build his new world order.

Like the Shaivite philosophers Durden echoes, the destruction he wreaks is not an act of malice or spite but one of transformation; in Hindu mythology, Shiva does ultimately destroy the Universe and everyone in it (and is understandably treated with trepidation and fear), but is also seen as a benevolent (or at least, benign) force in the end. In destroying the "old" universe, Shiva burns metaphysical "brush" of the cosmos to allow for new growth, and like a great cosmic brushfire, the way is cleared for Brahma the Creator to create a new Universe, allowing the cycle of karmic rebirth and renewal to continue.

In Abrahamic theology too, the idea of destruction as a creative act comes up frequently. In addition to deluvian myths and stories from the Old Testament (myths that are actually echoed in various other far-flung cultures ranging from East Asia to Meso-America), the climax act of the New Testament speaks of a final Apocalypse in which God will examine the world and the kingdoms of Man to decide if they are worthy of the Kingdom of Heaven. If, after a prolonged period of death, chaos and near-total destruction called Armageddon, Kingdoms of Man don't measure up, God will complete the world's destruction in order to build a new world and try again.

In Fight Club, however, destruction as a central philosophy is ultimately rejected. Instead of completing Durden's original plan to supply mankind a complete tabula rasa from which to begin again (this time free from credit records, which would certainly a popular idea these days), the film stops just short and spare both the protagonist's life (even after a gunshot to the head), and one of the credit bureau buildings. To me, at least, this is critical, is more than just a post-productive move shying away from an overt endorsement of terrorism (and the inevitable media frenzy and torrent of lawsuits that would've followed).

In that Durden's revolution is ultimately implied to have failed, the film makes one final statement about modern civilization (i.e. "order") in relation t anti-establishmentarian subversive movements (i.e. "mayhem"):

"It ain't much, but it's better than nothing."

Or, more to the point, an imperfect order is better than no order at all.

The reason for this is tied to the very nature of subversivism. Subversive movements are by definition tied to the culture they are rebelling against. Inasmuch as they are successful only so long as they are counter to some pervading norm, counter-cultures find their definition in being the "other" movement. When that movement becomes the norm, however, its central identity almost immediately, and its members are once again left adrift and without idendity, desperately searching for definition once more.

The phenomenon can be easily seen in both popular and political culture, when so-called "subculture" movements suddenly become popular ones. First, the movement rejects the attention, either to keep its activities free from scrutiny or intercession by mainstream ("corporate") forces, or to keep its ranks free from the taint of unwelcome interlopers and "posers." Inevitably, however, this only inspires more scrutiny and attention either from suspicious eyes even more intent on scrutinizing (or capitalizing on) the movement's activities, or from eager (and even, perhaps sincere) newcomers attracted to the movement's philosophy. If nothing else, the sense of community and belonging offered (either intentionally or otherwise) by the elusive and exclusive group is usually enough to attract the disaffected and disenfranchised members of society, and the prospect of rejecting or striking back at the society that rejected or disenfranchised them is on its own a powerful motivator for membership.

Regardless of the reasons, however, now the movement's insular and secretive nature (whatever the movement in question might be) has for better or worse raised its mystery and fascination by the mainstream, which inevitably forces the movement to the status of "clique," in social terminology (in politics, the analogous term would be "opposition movement"). Now, the movement is fully cemented in the collective consciousness and has become a fixture in mainstream society, even if it is only seen with trepidation or suspicion (at least, by the conservative and establishmentarian elements of society). From here on however, only one of two things can happen: the movement becomes the establishment, or the establishment becomes movement.

In both the former and the latter instance, the paths and end results are largely the same (and in fact, the distinction between the two is largely the matter of debate...and semantics). The movement might, for example, lash out against the establishment and be suppressed, however even suppression ultimately infuses the movement with further indignation or resentment against the establishment (leading to more insularity, and thus more "mystique" and desireability for the disaffected), and also raises the movement's stock with the marginalized and dissatisfied members of society (which is now seen as promising an alternative to the imperfect status quo, even if this is not originally intended or endorsed by the movement's members).

Even if the establishment lashes out against the movement first, however, the result is the same, unless the lashing so complete as to eliminate the movement entirely, or makes membership so unappealing that the movement loses any desireability to anyone at all. In practice, however, this is next to impossible to achieve, even if the suppression is violent; even if there was no possibility of adherents becoming "closeted" or going into hiding, human nature being what it is, there will always be some elements of society attracted to a suppressed movement by mere virtue that it is suppressed.

And as it happens, it may not even be necessary to kill the movement.

Eventually, so much of society will attracted to the movement that the powers that be can no longer treat it as an isolated event or group annoyance. Further suppression at this stage is most likely undesireable because of the sheer volume of adherents (either from fear of backlash by the "remaining" mainstream, fear of retaliation by such a large minority, or because many influential entities may now be members), and in fact may be practically impossible. Because of this community leaders may be faced with a difficult (though almost always protracted and drawn-out) choice between one of two options: negotiation, or capitulation.

Regardless of which is chosen, however, the end result is the same and the difference between the two options is, as state before, a matter of opinion and semantics. At this stage, the movement is already beyond the control of any individual or group of individuals and has taken on a life of its own, and "negotiation" may not actually entail any formal dialogue between groups or interested parties. "Negotiation" may simply mean that while the movement has not succeeded in replacing the establishment and removing it from existence it has succeeded in achieving widespread recognition, either through formal recognition by notable establishmentarians, or informal adoption and integration of its tenets and customs by the majority of society into the collective consciousness. In any event, the movement is now characterized by conventional wisdom and majority opinion as a legitimate practice/philosophy/manner of dress etc. that is alternative to (but not necessarily mutually exclusive with) that of mainstream society.

This recognition (a prelude to acceptance), more often than not spells doom for the movement and its adherents, and ironically destroys a large portion of its appeal to the masses. Even if the movement succeeded in achieving its original promises or goals (if it had any to begin with), in so doing it loses its very reason for being, and in the unlikely event that it succeeds in obtaining a new mission or purpose, it is highly unlikely that this new mission or purpose will appeal to the majority of its original base of supporters, if it even appeals to anyone at all. And even if the movement succeeds in refocusing its energies on another purpose, it will have taken on an entirely new identity which on its own may alienate and further disillusion the movement's supporters. For, insofar as they are no longer "mysterious," persecuted, nor even exceptional or particularly unique, the movement and its adherents no longer hold any desireability among the disaffected and disenfranchised that made it strong. In this sense, the movement is no longer recognizable as such, and in becoming the establishment (or an accepted part of it), it is most likely unrecognizable as anything else. Thus, though the establishment may not have changed leaders, identity, or even any aspect of its society, the movement is dead in that it is now a

The prognosis for the movement (and really, society as a whole) is even more dire if it induces the complete capitulation of the establishment it originally rejected or rebelled against. In replacing the establishment, the process of disintegration is even quicker; in one fell swoop it has lost its rejectionist identity simply because the society and way of life it rejected no longer exists. In that it no longer has the corrupt or otherwise undesireable establishment to rally its members against, a sufficiently large movement will inevitably struggle with internal unity and divisiveness by sheer virtue of its size and diversity. Even if there is another rallying point or unifying trait sufficiently strong to hold the "new establishment" together, without a clear, open-ended agenda for the future, the movement is doomed to failure; for, if the movement's agenda (if indeed, it had any to begin with) was to replace the established authority and mainstream society, without any clear reason to exist afterwards it is has surpassed its life expectancy and outlived its own usefulness.

That is to say, once the "mission" is "accomplished," what other reason for being might the missionnaries have?

This phenomenon is part of the reason why popular revolutions and rebellions rarely result in stable and enduring states. One need not have a firm grasp of government (nor even any ability in it), in order to denounce a system or point out its obvious flaws. Moreover, when faced with a truly flawed system worthy of denunciation, one need not have any real understanding of politics or organization (nor again, any ability for either practice) in order to cause such a system to fail or be replaced; indeed, if a system is flawed enough it can fail quite freely of its own accord.

However, the opposite can be true as well. A common tactic among fundamentally flawed establishments is to distract populace from its flaws with a "neverending mission" in the hopes of sustaining its revolutionary ethos and appeal to the disaffected for as long as possible. Similar to the concept of "bread and circuses" used in the Roman Empire, the doctrine of Ceaseless Pursuits can help a newly-established establishment retain some of the vestiges and loyalties of its days as a movement. And as long as the Pursuits in question are impossible to achieve or satisfy (whether by virtue of intention or practicality), and as long as the members of the former movement cannot be fatigued by, frustrated or disillusioned with its Ceaseless agenda, a movement-turned establishment can survive as a movement for surprisingly long after the end of its usefulness.

Unfortunately, this again is practically impossible and ultimately unsustainable. Even assuming that a movement succeeds in completely replacing the establishment (a rarity on its own, even assuming it ever set out to originally), by virtue of becoming the establishment the movement will have lost a significant portion of its appeal to its original base; the principal that some people "always support the underdog" runs both ways, and is only a boon so long as the "dog" in question stays under. And even if the movement-turned-establishment succeeds in appealing to a new base (possibly the former members of the outgoing establishment), doing so will most likely further alienate the original movment's base, and may even alienate others, creating the potential for yet another subversive or counter-culture movement to develop and challenge the first! If, by some miracle, the new movement survives or avoids the loss of its desireability with the disaffected, the marginalized, and the disenfranchised that originally made and kept it strong when it first became the establishment, it now has the added burden of justifying its existence with all of the above (not to mention the former mainstreamers it now must maintain with the removal of the old establishment) ad infinitum.

Add to all of this the necessary attributes and qualities (not to mention resources) that allowed the old establishment to survive as long as it did (such as it was), in addition to all of the above factors necessary to allow the new establishment to survive for infinity, and the reason for Fight Club's apparent step back from Durden's philosophy of creative destruction becomes painfully clear:

Opposition movements are great at producing revolutionaries, but revolutionaries are great at producing failed societies. Or, more to the point:

"It's okay to talk about Fight Club. It's okay to join Fight Club. It's even okay to fight with Fight Club. But never, ever, EVER elect Fight Club to public office."

--Paid for by the Democratic Party National Convention